


Promise

by imanadultvirgin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD John, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 02:30:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15809493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imanadultvirgin/pseuds/imanadultvirgin
Summary: It was the battlefield again, and men were dying under his hands. Blood ran thick on the ground, soaking his trousers to the knees. The ringing in his ears was a constant, grounding him, forcing him to think of the wounds before his eyes instead of the bullets flying by his head. Tears ran freely down his cheeks. A heartbeat stopped beneath a broken chest he had been trying to mend.





	Promise

**Author's Note:**

> this turned out really dark and sad so I'm sorry??

John padded through the kitchen on bare feet, hovering on his toes to keep the floorboards from creaking. It wouldn’t do to wake Sherlock at this hour, especially since the detective in question had no idea of John’s nightly trips to the brandy cabinet.

It was the battlefield again, and men were dying under his hands. Blood ran thick on the ground, soaking his trousers to the knees. The ringing in his ears was a constant, grounding him, forcing him to think of the wounds before his eyes instead of the bullets flying by his head. Tears ran freely down his cheeks. A heartbeat stopped beneath a broken chest he had been trying to mend.

He had come home knowing the nightmares would happen. The shrink he was required to visit after Brandon’s passing had told him in no uncertain terms that the war scarred even the most mentally stable people. John’s midnight terrors were better than hallucinations or insomnia. But they drove him closer and closer to his worst vice.

John popped the cap on the brandy bottle, snatched a short glass from a nearby shelf, and poured the amber liquid until it nearly spilled over the top. In one quick move, he tossed the contents down his throat, shivering as the sweet burn of alcohol warmed his blood.

 _Reaching for the bottle again,_ he thought sardonically. _What a fitting end._

He waited a moment, allowing the brandy to adjust his thought processing. When the world took on a slightly golden hue, John poured another glass. It was in this way that he emptied half the bottle – gulping and pausing, gulping and pausing. Waiting patiently for his ghosts to retreat behind the alcoholic sheen.

On any other night, John would have gone to bed after a few glasses, body relaxed and mind devoid of death. But that night felt different. Even after the bottle was half empty, John still felt a horrible shadow hovering over him, waiting for him to fall asleep. The night still seemed threatening. So John kept drinking, and the shadow kept waiting.

In the wee hours of the morning, John was staring at the kitchen table and gripping the empty brandy bottle with terrific intensity. The first light of dawn peaked through the curtains, lending a sense of perpetuality to the atmosphere. The world appeared frozen, stuck in one grey moment for the rest of eternity.

John had ceased thinking hours before, existing solely through fear and the uncomfortable heat pumping its way through his bloodstream. There was only the shadow, waiting. John, for the first time since returning home from the war, was genuinely scared of letting his mind fall into the blissful depths of sleep.

 _There’s that damn shadow now,_ John observed, a wave of terror coursing through him as a dark figure appeared in the kitchen threshold. _Nightmares weren’t enough. I had to be left with a new friend._

The shadow slowly moved towards him. It was tall and lean and looked remarkably like the one person in the world John loved more than anything else. Figures, that John’s hallucination should appear as Sherlock. Of course, Sherlock could have been a hallucination all this time, only revealing his true form now that John had truly succumbed to his weakness.

Not-Sherlock stepped into the light, seeming to be more Sherlock than shadow. John watched, dumb to the world, as Not-Sherlock coolly took stock of the situation in front of him. His blue, blue eyes flicked from the empty brandy bottle to John’s death grip, then to sweat stains on John’s nightshirt. John thought that Not-Sherlock looked . . . sad. Yes, that was it. He appeared inconsolably anguished by John and his brandy bottle.

 _That’s odd,_ John thought. _You’d think a hallucination from a war would enjoy the sight of pain and terror._

The Not-Sherlock visibly recollected himself, banishing the feeling from his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest.

“How long has this been going on?” he asked, voice low and thick with the emotion he couldn’t quite hide.

John shrugged. “About three this morning.”

“No,” Not-Sherlock shot back, shaking his head, and now he seemed filled with quiet fury. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

John stared at the brandy bottle, thoughts moving sluggishly. Realization dawned on him a moment later, and he blushed.

“Since I came home.”

“From the war,” Not-Sherlock said, not questioning, but stating bluntly, because now everything was completely clear. The nights when he heard footsteps in the hall, thinking that John was only getting a bit of water. Waking up to find John red-eyed and slow in a way that wasn’t characteristic of not getting enough sleep as he claimed. Finding empty bottles in the garbage and assuming that one of the neighbors had an alcohol addiction.

John nodded, sensing that this Not-Sherlock was more sentient than he’d earlier imagined. Perhaps this was the real Sherlock, and the Not-Sherlock had truly disappeared with the moon.

The real Sherlock sighed deeply, chest rattling with some sort of liquid noise that sounded suspiciously like concealed tears. He fell heavily into a chair beside John and put his face in his hands.

“What am I going to do?” whispered the real Sherlock. John wasn’t sure if the question was addressed at him, so he remained silent. Better to watch and listen than to act when his mind could be playing tricks on him.

After what felt like an eternity, Sherlock’s face emerged from its hiding place and turned to look at John. John himself felt weak-kneed and fluttery at that look. The feelings he’d spent years hiding were creeping from the depths of his heart, basking in the light of day. Feelings he’d only let himself experience once before, a time that had ended tragically in the loss of his best friend.

But John was unguarded, the alcohol wearing through his barriers like acid. Everything he’d hid inside the brandy bottle was coming back, determined to make him pay for his indulgence. Sin did not go unpaid.

“I love you,” John whispered to the real Sherlock, hoping desperately that the real Sherlock was truly real.

The Hopefully-Sherlock looked unsurprised. “I know.”

John hesitated, unsure as to his next move. He knew what he wanted to do now, but Hopefully-Sherlock wasn’t reacting in the slightest. Delving deep into his well of resolve, John leaned forward and pressed his mouth firmly on Hopefully-Sherlock’s.

There was a moment much like the time before Not-Sherlock appeared on the kitchen threshold, when everything seemed stuck. Sherlock froze against John, and John froze against Sherlock. Neither moved for that second of perpetuality.

Then Sherlock kissed him back.

Everything was suddenly hot and rushed and _real_ , and John knew that this was Sherlock, the real and true Sherlock, kissing him like a man dying. Fingers twisted in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer still until he was practically in Sherlock’s lap. There was a heady sense of joy that slowly replaced the darkness hiding in John’s soul as he kissed and kissed and kissed.

When they finally broke apart, sharing breath in the centimeters between them, Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s and hugged him tightly.

“Please,” Sherlock begged quietly. “Please never drink again.”

John hesitated to answer, opening his mouth to gently refuse.

“No,” Sherlock whispered fiercely. “Don’t make excuses. I need you to promise me that you won’t.”

“Alright,” John conceded, that warm feeling in his chest expanding exponentially. “I promise you.”

Sherlock laughed quietly, and cradled John against his chest. “I love you.”

John smiled slightly, the nightmares and ghosts rapidly retreating in the face of this newfound happiness. “I know.”


End file.
